


pretend

by proximally



Category: Prey (Video Game 2017)
Genre: Female Morgan Yu, Gen, POV Second Person, rated T for four (4) swears, vague typhon worldbuilding or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 02:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17499755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proximally/pseuds/proximally
Summary: A typhon is patient. These humans won't even see it coming.





	pretend

**Author's Note:**

> Written July 2017, slightly touched-up just now.

A typhon is patient. An ambush predator, like a terran snake, but superior in every way. A typhon can wait years between meals, millennia and more if the conditions are right. Not even the vacuum of space or its bitter cold can hope to stop it. Why these humans think _they_ can, you couldn’t possibly fathom.

You’re to be their saviour; that’s as much as they’ve said. You’re not sure how they plan for that to work. Typhon don’t do compromise. Typhon don’t do empathy, or understanding, or parlay. They hunt. They consume. They continue. When the Earth is empty, they’ll merely move on to the next. It doesn’t matter how many light years are between here and there; they’ll get there.

You pretend otherwise, of course. You pretend to feel like they do. Give them all the answers you know they’re looking for, walk the walk, talk the talk, just like a real human being. It’s all idle curiosity; this won’t last, but it might be fun to see how it ends.

Just as they experiment on you, you take the opportunity to experiment on them. What difference in reaction is there, if you speak these words, in this tone? Do the Operators float closer, if you position yourself just so? Are they kinder, more willing to forgive an error, if you adjust the distance between your shape’s eyes, like this? How gradual a change is too gradual for a human mind to notice?

You’re an alien, and you’re not even a psychologist, but _god,_ they’re so easy to read. So stupid, so gullible, they’re like a flock of three-year-olds with none of the creativity that makes them entertaining to deal with. It’s child’s play, manipulating them into doing what you want, sometimes for no reason other than to see if they’ll comply. Can I have this? Would you mind if I did that? Could you do something for me? You have them wrapped around your pinky finger, and they haven’t even noticed.

They even _trust_ you. Just after a few months! They let you roam as you please, allow you to do anything and speak to anyone you want. You could destroy them all in an instant. An _instant._

One morning, you wake and roll out of bed. Except you don’t, because you’re pinned to the mattress, restraints around your limbs, and you can’t quite remember how to mimic a shape other than the one you’re inhabiting.

A presence hovers over you, familiar.

“Good morning. I thought it was about time we had a little chat.”

“What the-- what’s going _on?_ ” you demand, forced casual - or try to; you’re still processing, and your words bleed into each other like coloured inks in water. The tone, you think, is what gets the message across.

“Please understand,” says Alex, “I know what you’re doing. What you’re trying to do.”

For a nanosecond, ice floods the veins you don’t have. Then you recoup: so what? This was only ever about killing time. About waiting. Ingratiating yourself with this lot was just idle entertainment, and now the wait is over. You drop the act.

“Oh? And what are you going to do about it?”

“Cut the bravado, typhon,” he says, “You know as well as I do you can’t do a damned thing right now.”

You glare at him and, man, if looks could kill.

“The first thing I’d like to say is that quietly plotting our deaths isn’t going to get you out of here. I’m sure you’re well aware of most of the security measures we have in place here, and I’m not certain how much human biology you understand, but I’ll remind you that those don’t just go away when we’re dead.”

He pauses to move closer, and you see that, somehow, his expression has become even _less_ impressed. Who knew _that_ was possible?

“The other, more pressing issue? Please stop screwing up test validity. It’s not helpful. I understand that knowing you can be terminated at any time may be one reason you’re going to such efforts, but in the future? Keep the subject bias to a minimum. I don’t care if you think you know what results we want, stop doing shit specifically to please the researchers.”

Your lip curls. “I’m a scientist, you don’t have to explain terms to me.”

His eyebrows twitch at that - ever so slightly - before morphing into something almost like parental concern, and after a moment he says, “You know you’re not Morgan,” and he says it like he’s patiently reminding a child to look both ways before crossing the street. It makes your blood _boil._ You’re not taking this lying down. Or, well. Anyway. You’re pissed.

“I might as well be, for all there was left of her at the end,” you spit, “Head like a fucking colander, what kind of life do you think she could’ve led after that?”

“Stop,” he says, a command to be obeyed. You just laugh.

“ _‘Stop’,_ ha! You could’ve stopped it anytime you felt like it. You were the CEO, weren’t you? You could’ve shut the whole operation down whenever you pleased.”

“She asked me not to. She _insisted.”_

“Flat-Earthers insist the Earth’s a disc, doesn’t make them right. Kids do all kinds of stupid shit, doesn’t make it safe,” you say. “Morgan insisted on continuing the research, doesn’t mean she knew what she was doing.”

“She was twenty-nine and a brilliant scientist,” Alex counters, but it’s a weak argument and he knows it.

“She was twenty-seven, missing half her memories, and had no fucking clue what was going on.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t, and whose _fault_ is that?”

“She was perfectly capable-”

“Of what? Lying through her teeth? ‘Cause in that case, I’d agree with you.”

“That wasn’t _pretend._ She wouldn’t-”

“She _would._ Listen up, assbag, of the two of us, who has her neurons? _I do._ And I’m telling you: Morgan fucking _hated_ you.”

He’s stunned speechless for a moment as you glare up at him, bound tight but more than defiant. He might have you immobilised, he might be calling all the shots, you might not survive this ‘little chat’, but you’ll be damned if you don’t cause some damage first, even if it’s only emotional. God, you hope he cries.

He doesn’t.

He looks at you, looks you right in the eyes, and just starts laughing. It’s millimetres from sobbing, but that’s not anguish, that’s not a mental breakdown like you were aiming for, he’s _laughing_ at you, and he says, “ _God,_ you’re right!” and when all you do in response is frown, he wipes his eyes and tries to elaborate through the snorts of almost fond amusement:

“You’re right,” he says, “I’ve just realised, you really, truly, might as well be Morgan, because Morgan was a manipulative little shit since before she could speak, and now even from beyond the grave _she’s manipulated a typhon into becoming her._ ”

He smiles, then, big and wide, the most emotion you think you’ve ever seen on his face with your own two eyes, “V16.5, you’re more Morgan than you could possibly imagine.”

**Author's Note:**

> the _real_ most human emotion is self-denial


End file.
